Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
The words die my throat as I freeze two steps away from my car, staring at the envelope on my windshield.
Owen registers it, and I look up at him as he scans the area, his brow furrowed before he walks to the windshield and grabs the letter.
He passes it to me, and I open it.
He doesn't scare me.
Ice spears through my veins, my muscles trembling from the flood of adrenaline at reading the words. I frantically look around the area. I don’t see anyone, but with the woods bordering the lot—one of the reasons I bought the place—my anxiety whispers that he could be out there, and I wouldn't know.
“Is he watching me right now?” I ask, unable to keep the panic from my voice.
“Breathe, Zoe,” he says, wrapping a strong arm around my shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re safe with me. I just need you to breathe.”
I’m shaking, my chest tight, and his words are just this side of fuzzy.
Goddammit, I’m panicking.
“Breathe,” he says, stepping in front of me so nothing but him fills my vision. He cups my cheeks, his hands warm against my chilled skin. “In for four, out for four. We’ll do it together.” He sucks in a deep, slow breath, and I mirror his actions, holding when he does, releasing when he does.
We do this three more times together, his touch, his instructions, grounding me.
“Good,” he says after I’ve stopped trembling. “Can I have your keys?”
I hand them to him without a second thought, and he guides me to the passenger seat of my car, situating me there before climbing behind the wheel.
“You don't have to drive me home,” I say through a shaking breath.
I curl my hands into fists, balling them up and holding them for a few moments before releasing them, trying to sync the motion to my breathing. “I'll be fine in a second,” I assure him, knowing my body and its reactions and my mind pretty damn well.
“I know you will be,” Owen says without a shred of doubt. “But I'm still going to drive you home. Don't worry, I'll grab a Lyft back here later.”
I don't argue, unable to deny the relief that floods my system as he navigates the roads toward my home. I know I'm more than fully capable of getting a grip and doing it myself, but there's something to be said about being taken care of in this moment.
I lean back against the headrest, finally managing to get control of my breathing by the time Owen pulls into my garage, killing the ignition but waiting until the garage door is fully closed before he hurries around the car to open my door and help me out.
“Do you want to stay for a bit?” I ask as I open the door to my home. “I could really use a cup of tea. My nerves are absolutely shot.”
“I could too,” he says as he follows me inside.
I drop my bag and keys that he hands me in the drop station by my door, heading straight for my kitchen and flicking on lights as I go. I turn on the kettle, and bring down my tea box, showing it to him. He points to a bag randomly, and I lose myself in the practiced motions of making tea. I nod to the bar stools that line my kitchen island for him to sit on, and set his tea before him.
I take two full sips of the hot, calming liquid before I find my voice again. “I'm sorry about that,” I say, shaking my head.
Owen furrows his brow. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he says. “Honestly, the way you hold yourself together is...graceful. Elegant even. I've seen grown men who don't have a handle on their anxiety like you do, not that I blame them. I don't even think I can keep my shit together that well and I'm trained for high-stakes situations.”
I laugh softly, the praise settling like warm honey inside my chest. “Thanks,” I say shrugging. “I’d kind of be a shitty therapist if I didn't practice what I preached, right?”
“I don't think you could ever be shitty at anything,” he says, taking a sip of his tea.
He says the line with such familiarity that I feel the connection between us knocking on the door we've locked it behind. Despite seeing him every day, I miss the texting version of him, something about those good morning and flirty texts brightening every day for the last two months.
“Do you have a strategy about putting an end to this?” I ask instead of bringing up what I really want to talk about. “My friend at the Sweet Water police department has tried everything to track down Spencer on his own dime because the force says all the letters aren't technically threats or harassment, so they can't do anything yet, but he hasn’t found him.”